


like real people do

by mercuryhatter



Category: Imperial Radch Series - Ann Leckie
Genre: Bloodplay, Knives, Other, Self Harm, assorted weird ship/Presger stuff, not for AL
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-28 04:57:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8432698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mercuryhatter/pseuds/mercuryhatter
Summary: Sphene has some complicated ways of getting physical intimacy, Zeiat doesn't yet have any at all. They work it out.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [venndaai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/venndaai/gifts).



> I'm not really sure what tags this sort of thing needs, but be mindful that this fic does involve Sphene using its ancillary bodies to harm itself physically and mentally.

“Show me how you do it,” Zeiat said. The segment she was most familiar with, from Athoek Station, stood behind her, but she faced away from it, distracted by running her hands over the wall that _Sphene_ had patiently reassured her was a part of itself too. “I’ll watch you, and then I’ll know what to do.”

 _Sphene’s_ ancillary went still, considering this. The idea brought up a complicated tangle of emotions, a weird twist of shame, uncertainty, and excitement. The way that _Sphene_ \-- well-- kept pace with those particular organic urges, it wasn’t something _Sphene_ would have shown any human, under any circumstances. But Zeiat? It seemed as good a place to start as any, with her.

“All right,” _Sphene_ said, after several seconds of silence. “Come with me, Translator.” _Sphene_ took Zeiat’s elbow, tugging her away from the wall, and she came easily, with a little conspiratorial laugh, wrapping her arm around the segment as it led her further into the ship.

 _Sphene’s_ interior was an odd patchwork of pristine and neglect. There was a toppled ship’s altar, icons and shattered glass flowers strewn across the hallway where they had been thrown in a fit of rage by unclean ancillary hands, decades ago now. Two segments watched over a small pile of burning incense in one of the decade rooms, where the floor was scorched and smoke drifted out of the door. It was the wrong smell, of course, _Sphene_ had run out of the original store of incense over two thousand years ago. It honestly wasn’t sure why it continued to buy and burn the new stuff; it could have just as easily been an expression of contempt as one of nostalgia, or maybe just something to keep those two segments occupied.

One ancillary stayed on the bridge at all times. The original had been the last one to keep wearing the old uniform, and neither it nor its replacements had worn anything else since the old material crumbled off its body. Other ancillaries would leave food, water, and cleaning supplies at the door on a semi-regular basis. The bridge was always spotless. No other segments ever entered.

The medbay was silent today;  _Sphene_ had put away the remaining bodies it still had in stasis in preparation for Zeiat’s visit. Best to let as few people know as possible about those, since technically they could still be saved, and undoubtedly would be if the Cousin who called herself Breq had anything to say about it. Best to ensure that no one but _Sphene_ had anything to say about it.

One of the decade rooms had been turned into a museum of sorts, ancient Notai swords and knives and other artifacts hanging on the walls or displayed on one of the tables, which were shoved into corners to leave most of the room as open space. Two other segments, called there shortly after Zeiat had made her suggestion, were already there, waiting with blank expressions. The ancillary leading Zeiat turned to look at her, pushing aside a dusty pile of unframed paintings to make room for Zeiat to sit on the table.

“Here,” it said, and Zeiat hopped into the cleared space, kicking her legs and watching the three segments of Sphene with polite anticipation.

Zeiat’s segment of _Sphene_ , an unconsciously applied designation that Sphene itself was trying not to think about too much, left Zeiat on the table and walked over to the display of weapons, running its fingers along each one appraisingly. It had its favorites, but were they the most impressive? After all, this time they had an audience.

“Ooh, I didn’t know you were going to use swords,” Zeiat said, sounding delighted. “Does everyone do that?”

“I doubt it, Translator,” _Sphene_ said impassively, through all three segments at once, which Zeiat seemed to be equally delighted by. It thought seriously about using the long, broad saber, longer than any of _Sphene’s_ arms and set with jewels, but decided against it in the end. There was a small knife, just five inches from hilt to tip, curved and edged in gold, that in the end _Sphene_ preferred for these purposes. It selected that one and called the other two segments over, pushing each down on their knees.

It was a familiar ritual by now, but made surreal by the presence of the Translator, who _Sphene_ was determinedly not looking at with any of its eyes but was impossible to ignore on its sensors. It had been so long since there was someone on board who wasn’t part of _Sphene_ or doomed to become so, jarringly odd to feel a presence outside of itself that wasn’t consumed with terror. _Sphene_ wondered if it could put some of its implants in Zeiat’s head someday, truly be aware of her the way she would be aware of an officer, but the idea was too dizzying to consider fully. The standing segment lashed out, as much to distract itself as anything, slapping one of the kneeling ancillaries across the face with knife in hand. A bright line of red stood out against the ashen skin, in sharp relief for a moment before the blood began to blur and run, dripping down the jawbone and pooling in the hollow beneath the neck. The ancillary rocked with the blow, but stayed upright, staring blankly and yet somehow accusingly up at itself. The standing segment ignored it, gripping the chin of the unmarked segment with a bruising grip. Almost too fast to see, the bleeding ancillary seized the standing one’s arm and yanked it to the ground where it hit with a crack, allowing the other segment to climb on top of it, holding it down by the shoulders. The bleeding ancillary wrestled the knife away, shoved it under the immobilized ancillary’s chin. It pierced the skin, drew a red line down to the shoulder where it twisted and pressed harder, causing the segment to groan and arch off the ground. The ancillary still holding it down pushed a knee into its chest, forcing it back down.

It hadn’t intended to talk to itself, not this time, with the Translator watching, but the words came anyway-- someone hissed “it’s your fault” and someone else moaned “yes, yes,” and maybe they all said at once “you killed her,” because _Sphene_ couldn’t be with itself like this without thinking of Captain Minask, refused to let itself have anything that wasn’t shadowed by the memory of her, of everything _Sphene_ did and failed to do. At some point the knife fell out of someone’s hand, clattering on the floor, and then _Sphene_ was just a mass of hands and limbs, grasping and clutching and all over slick with blood. Faintly, _Sphene_ heard footsteps, used someone’s eyes to see Zeiat walking over to the segments, picking the knife up off the floor. She licked the edge, thoughtfully. Zeiat’s segment of _Sphene_ disentangled itself, stood up, breathing heavily. Other segments, until now uninvolved, appeared to take the other two on the floor away. _Sphene_ and Zeiat looked at each other, one disheveled beyond repair, one immaculate except for the bloody knife at her lips.

“Now me,” she said, holding out the knife. _Sphene_ took it automatically, did not take her eyes from Zeiat’s face. The Translator had an interesting expression on her face-- not disgust, like anyone else might have felt, but still something unreadable. _Sphene_ moved closer until they were chest to chest, looked up at Zeiat, their noses almost touching.

“Go on,” Zeiat prompted, taking _Sphene’s_ hand, the one holding the knife, and bringing it to her face. When _Sphene_ did nothing, Zeiat started to press lightly, compressing the skin but not breaking it deeply. _Sphene_ stayed frozen, oddly seized with something like horror, and did not move until a small beaded line of blood swelled on Zeiat’s cheek.

“No,” it said suddenly, usually blank voice tight and raw. “Stop.” It flung the knife away reflexively; something shattered across the room but _Sphene_ didn’t look, still fixated on Zeiat’s eyes. It didn’t realize until Zeiat put a finger to its face and came away with clear liquid trembling on the tip that it was crying, eyes wide and face slack.

“What I do, it isn’t--” _Sphene_ broke off. “You haven’t--” A clump of its long hair was stuck to its face with blood, and Zeiat lifted it away, moved it behind the segment’s ear. “This was a mistake.”

“Well, if you think so,” Zeiat said, quiet and placid. “But this is what I think, and do tell me if I’m wrong, but I think that now that I’m here, you aren’t alone anymore, and maybe you can do things with me that you won’t do with yourself.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” _Sphene_ said, faintly surprised at itself. Zeiat smiled.

“As far as I understand it, you don’t have to. And I wouldn’t worry about hurting me on accident. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m very durable.” _Sphene_ , abruptly, took Zeiat’s face in both hands and kissed her, leaving flaking smears of red on her cheeks. The kiss was rougher than _Sphene_ might have liked, in this situation anyway, but it was out of practice, and the Translator didn’t seem to mind. She kissed back clumsily, more teeth than lips, and they both tasted blood. _Sphene_ twined all of that segment’s limbs around Zeiat, the Translator getting the idea quickly and picking the segment straight up off the ground. Lights came on, leading out of the decade room and down the hall, lights formerly used for emergencies but now used to direct Zeiat to an empty room, one of the cleaner officers’ quarters, one with a still-intact bed. _Sphene_ wanted softness, for this. Blood and bruises would be fine, could even be difficult to avoid between the two of them, but maybe this time that didn’t have to be the only thing. A half-dozen other segments filtered into the room, drawn by the hesitant flickers of joy that hadn’t been felt in _Sphene’s_ systems for millenia, but Zeiat only laughed and touched each of them as they moved in unison. Her touch was blunt and sometimes rough, her strength probably matched the augmented strength of _Sphene’s_ ancillaries easily and she didn’t always seem to know what to do with it, but there was not an ounce of harshness or punishment in it. She touched as much of _Sphene_ as she could reach but always returned her attention to _her_ segment of _Sphene_ , something that that segment noticed and thrilled in, the warm glowing feeling of having found a favorite and being a favorite in return. 

**Author's Note:**

> I had to go through and re-italicize everything when I moved the file over, so I might have missed a few. Damn Ann Leckie and her naming conventions.


End file.
